


In Isolation

by NobodyOfficial



Category: Murder on the Orient Express (2017)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Angst, Death, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Suicide mention, idk what this is I just wrote it I'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-06 03:00:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12808170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NobodyOfficial/pseuds/NobodyOfficial
Summary: Marquez and MacQueen accidentally share a cabin back to America and talk of past ordeals and the future.-Just a bit of angsty fluff, no real substance, I just really love Marquez.





	In Isolation

**Author's Note:**

> Idk I'm sorry. Barely edited, it's super late, please refer to the tags for trigger warnings because I'm so tired.
> 
> There's one word I'm not sure about the usage in the time period, but it was being used as slang of another kind, so I suppose... if you know more than me about 1933 America feel free to tell me!

Sometimes MacQueen couldn't tell if he was drunk or not. The world was always too rich, too sensory, overwhelming. Alcohol only ever added to his irritability, elevating his heart rate, increasing his stress, but he couldn't do without it. Without it he became exposed to other emotions: devastation, dejection, loneliness. And after a few hours the hangover began to set in, churning his insides and sending spasms of pain through his head. A perpetual drunkenness kept the pain away.

The docks were smoggy, smothering, forcing MacQueen to melt in to the dense crowd. Shouts, squealing chains, fog horns assaulted his ears, making him jittery and cautious. His trunk was clutched securely in his arms, against his chest, crushing his ribs slightly. They felt bruised and tired each time they collided with the trunk, which bounced along with MacQueen’s scurrying walk. He needed to remember to breath.

MacQueen stopped abruptly, immediately hit with a wave of travellers, and rested his trunk between his feet. His hand rummaged clumsily through his pocket and he withdrew a hip flask which he held protectively against his chest, away from the crowd. The warm liquid burned in his throat but he forced it down. Instant gratification. His mind faded back to a muggy mess.

The crowds thinned as MacQueen finally embarked upon the boat. Most of the passengers were already on board and gathered around the sides of the ship to watch the receding coastline, but MacQueen headed straight for his cabin. Though he was fluent in small talk it brought him no particular pleasure.

The bowels of the ship were dark. Darkness, as well as startling light, make MacQueen shiver with discomfort. He ran a hand along the wall to guide his way, squinting at cabin numbers in the gloom. Had the ship begun to move? Or was his vision swimming? He paused, gulping down heaving breaths as his organs seemed to clench momentarily. The feeling was fleeting but severe enough to knock him sick.

The thought of a warmly lit cabin comforted MacQueen. It was risky, now that he was out of a job, to splurge on a single cabin, but he'd managed to secure accommodation with a port hole and its own accompanying washing facilities. Considering most of the journey would be spent in a drunken stupor that would suffice.

Finally, halfway down the corridor, he found his cabin number and opened the door. It was fresh inside, all metal and acrylic. The floor was richly carpeted, the mattresses luxuriously quilted and-

“Damnit Marquez! What're you doing in my room?” MacQueen demanded. His voice sounded so bitter.

“Ah! Mr MacQueen!” Marquez straightened from where he'd been reclining on the bed, a huge grin adorning his face. “So wonderful to see you! You always worry who you'll end up sharing these berths with, eh?”

MacQueen clenched his fist, resisting the urge to scream at Marquez to get out. He'd wanted to leave it all behind him. That was what this trip was for, to purge his life of all horrors of the past. Unlike Mary and John he hadn't found solace in shared pain, but in alcohol, and he was happy to return to his solitude. Marquez was merely a sore reminder of his past. He'd had far too many of those lately.

“Yes,” MacQueen hissed. Marquez pretended not to notice as he took a swig from his flask.

“Here.” Marquez rose from the lower bunk, nudging his trunk further into a recess under the bed. “You can have the bottom bed.”

“What?” MacQueen bristled. “Why?” He couldn't calm down. Couldn't stop. He wanted to but it was futile. “Because I'm fat? Because I can't climb up there?”

“Hey, hey!” Marquez held his hands up in defence. “I mean no offence. Here.” He sat down again. “Take whichever bed you please, I have no strong feelings towards either.”

MacQueen raised a hand in front of his face, to climb up on to the bed, but it was shaking so violently he couldn't even grab the bunk. Deflated, he slumped down beside Marquez.

“Would you like me to take the upper bunk?” His voice was kind but MacQueen detected a note of amusement.

“Sure.”

The ship set sail. Marquez was respectful, quiet, reading his book and drawing closed the shutters when the time arose. The sea wrecked havoc with MacQueen’s stomach, making him queasy and uncomfortable. He lay prone on the bed, moving only to take a sip of brandy ever so often (which would, of course, calm his stomach. That's what he'd always assumed).

At some hour when it was dark outside Marquez descended from the bed and began to wash and dress for dinner. “You do not wish to accompany me, Mr MacQueen?” He inquired. “I have heard these American steamers serve the most exquisite of foods.”

That in no wha enticed MacQueen. He didn't have the constitution for any food at the best of times, least of all rich food being served on a stormy sea. Just the thought of something being churned, squeezed, digested in his stomach made him gag. He politely declined.

“If you change your mind then I shall be eagerly awaiting your company,” Marquez said as he departed.

The engine ground steadily. The waves tossed the boat from side to side. It made MacQueen drowsy in that agitated, day-dream-like state that sickness usually did. His mind, traumatised and addled with fear, begged for sleep. His body, shuddering and bilious, fought his mind vigorously.

Fists clutched tightly. Nails digging into his palms so hard it hurt. He'd clutched Cassetti’s face that night, so hard he could've broken his jaw, like he was forcing the life from his body. Everyone had struck. Everyone had blood on their hands. But MacQueen’s hands held the memory of clutching a limp, lifeless body, unable to let go, somehow able to revel in the bloodstains on its shirt.

MacQueen shot up, light headed and tingling. He reached instinctively for his flask but found it was empty. Empty. His whole body was convulsing, somehow as cold as the sea and as warm as the engine simultaneously. He couldn't remember how to use his throat. He couldn't breath. He needed another drink.

MacQueen had no memory of his trip to the bar, how much money he spent, what he drank. Everything was dark and fuzzy, liminal; not painful but untenanted by any strong emotion. The next thing he recalled was retching over a basin, tears flooding from his eyes and his hair loose and sweaty. He kept pushing it back in to a quiff, as if somehow maintaining his immaculate hairstyle would aid his situation. It did not.

The boat lurched to the right, slamming MacQueen’s shoulder against the wall. He groaned, gripped his stomach, repositioned himself in front of the basin. Usually he could hold his alcohol incredibly well, so he must have really overdone it. He wanted a cigarette. He felt flammable.

“Mr MacQueen?” Marquez’s voice was so gentle, but MacQueen still startled. Curled in the corner of the room, hovering over a wash basin, he was so exposed and vulnerable. He despised looking so weak.

“I'm fine.” The sound MacQueen uttered had no semblance to the words he'd prepared in his head. “Go to bed.” Marquez smelled of smoke, but MacQueen had never seen him with a cigarette. He'd obviously been making friends.

“I hope you don't mind my saying, but you look terribly unwell. Would you like me to call for someone?” Marquez crouched beside MacQueen, reaching out to comfort him but too afraid to actually lay a hand on his back. MacQueen recoiled from the touch.

“No. No. No one, thank you. I'm just seasick, is all.” He'd been equally as ill on the journey to the continent, but then his alcohol consumption had been even higher. Cassetti had been suspicious and impatient with him, but he'd pleaded seasickness and confined himself to his room. He was no monster; he didn't look his prey in the eyes as he went in for the slaughter.

“Alright.” Marquez sat down beside MacQueen, back against the wall. “I think you would feel better if you ate something.” He took a napkin from his pocket and offered it to MacQueen, who forced himself upright to sit next to Marquez. “I had to be imperceptible to sneak this out.”

He took the small parcel, more for the sake of going through the motions than actually wanting what was inside. It was warm in his hands, and MacQueen suddenly realised he was icy cold. He unwrapped it. A bread roll.

“I have some biscuits too,” Marquez said, pulling a second napkin from his other pocket.

MacQueen was overwhelmed. He knew he should want to eat the bread, soft, golden, baked to perfection; that it was expected of him. But he also knew that the second it hit his stomach it would come back up violently. Instead he clutched it protectively to his chest, wondering what he had done to deserve Marquez’s kindness.

There had never been any malcontent between the two men, but they'd never been close. MacQueen would sometimes see him in passing and greet him, to which Marquez would respond most enthusiastically, but until a few months ago they'd never entertained a proper conversation. Then it became very apparent that they were wildly different people. Marquez was diligent, persevering, strong in both mind and body. Hector was reliant, fearful, unable to face his own deteriorating state.

“I remember when you were young,” Marquez mused, staring straight ahead while MacQueen stared at him.

“You haven't known me that long,” MacQueen replied. One of his hands still clutched the side of the basin.

“Ah, yes, that is true. But you looked young. You had bright eyes, tanned skin, this strange pile of hair at the front of your head-“

“Like this?” Hector pushed his stiff hair back in to a quiff.

“Yes, yes,” Marquez smiled. “Like that, but bigger. You were loud and talkative, I remember, I could hear you from the outside of the house, several rooms away!” He laughed humourlessly, as if in a pantomime. “And you were chubby, hm, no, I don't wish to offend…” He paused for a moment. “You had round cheeks, you looked healthy.”

“I'm still chubby.” MacQueen pressed the bread against his lips. The sensation made him nauseous but he no longer though he'd be physically sick.

“Mm, but you look, forgive my English, hollow.”

Hollow.

Whether intentionally or not, Marquez had described MacQueen exactly.

“I can't speak without sounding bitter.” Hector’s voice was so soft Marquez had to lean in to hear him. “Can't walk without stumbling, can't write without my hand shaking. I can play the straight man, but in the end I'm just screwed up.”

The wind howled, battering ferociously at the boat. If the steamer were to somehow capsize, sink into the depths and drown them all, Hector figured he would not be losing anything. Jobless, alone, ostracised from his remaining family members, death would be nothing but a sweet release.

“What're you going to do?” Marquez inquired. “When we get back?”

MacQueen shrugged his shoulders and they ached. He'd been hunched over for far too long. “Dwindle my stolen money in speakeasies. Try to embezzle some other asshole’s savings. I reckon I've got a talent for it now.” He paused. Yawned. For the first time in a week he looked forward to sleep. “What about you?”

“Return to my business.” Marquez smiled fondly. “I owe it to him. And anyway, I enjoy it. From now on I lead a crime-free life; no stealing, no embezzling, no plotting. It's like… life was paused, and at that exact moment it began again. Life goes on now.”

MacQueen huffed. If only it were that simple.

“You know, I am in need of a good numbers guy,” Marquez prompted, nudging his shoulder. “Someone experienced, reliable-“ For the first time all evening he looked directly at MacQueen, “Sober.”

“I know some guys I went to college with.” He turned purposefully away from Marquez. “I can pass on their details.” Absently he took a bite of the roll, then, realising what he'd done, tightened his grip on the basin. He waited. Nothing happened.

“Actually, I would rather someone I know,” Marquez said. He glanced sideways at MacQueen, who was obliviously taking minuscule bites of the bread roll. “You, Mr MacQueen. I am offering you a job.”

“If I sober up.” His voice had returned to its usual bitter tone. “I can't see that occurring in the foreseeable future.”

MacQueen had expected this to frighten Marquez away, but he just grinned wildly. It was rather intimidating. “I am not asking you to become instantly sober. I'm asking you to manage my finances without brandy in your tea. And I would appreciate if you didn't spend your paycheques solely on alcohol. No need to answer now, you can consider.”

The boat swayed. If they didn't die, MacQueen decided, he would take the job.

“Thank you.” He patted Marquez awkwardly on the arm and smiled. “I think I need to go to sleep now.”

The rest of the bread roll was wrapped back up and stored beside MacQueen’s bed with the biscuits. His ‘seasickness’ had died down but he felt full after his merge meal.

Marquez’s voice drifted from the top bunk. “Will you join me for breakfast tomorrow, Mr MacQueen?”

MacQueen closed his eyes and nestled his cheek into the pillow. The gentle rocking of the boat was calming. His mind was blank, stuck in that fuzzy place between drunk and hungover. He was eagerly awaiting sleep.

“Maybe. I might come and get some tea, see what the stuff’s like without alcohol.”

Marquez sighed in amusement. “That would be pleasant. Goodnight.”

“Hmm. Goodnight.” A pause. Brief. Tranquil. “And thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Well... that happened apparently. I'm sorry. 
> 
> Tumblr: everyonewholovesmehasdied   
> It's not very Orient-Expressey but I'm friendly, you can hmu
> 
> Thanks for reading :)


End file.
